The Church Ladies

by Lisa Samson

  “Don’t know. Didn’t ask.” She took a sip. “Ahh. These are just so good.”

  I stabbed a straw through the lid of Angus’s drink and handed it to him.

  “And you know, Poppy, God used weather all the time in the Bible.”

  “At least He didn’t send a cataclysmic flood.”

  “See? I think He’s giving us a chance to make things right.”

  “If that’s possible.” Charmaine opened her mouth, and I quickly said, “I know, I know. All things are possible with God.”

  She patted my thigh. “You might try believing that. It may even help you accept Duncan’s vocation.”

  “Oh, believe me, Duncan even being in the ministry proves that verse.”

  “You left a lot behind, didn’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “Oh, honey. Maybe it’s time to get rid of them for good.”

  Twenty-two

  The drive to Baltimore proved colorful and peaceful. Chris fell asleep, and I listened to a CD I borrowed from Duncan. I decided to give Christian music an honest to goodness try. He suggested Michael Card. “You’ll like the depth, Popp.”

  Har! Duncan definitely gave me more credit than I deserved with that one!

  Beside me, Chris’s face glowed pink and gold in the sunlight, her hair almost white it shone so blond. Even in sleep, a sadness lay over her features like sweat on a toddler. Surely not unnatural, but provided by an unusually exerting circumstance.

  Poor Chris.

  I stole glance after glance as we traveled Interstate 95. I wouldn’t trade places with her for anything. Not anymore. Not with Josh gone and all. I had always said that, though, in my mind. Chris couldn’t even draw a flower that didn’t have one stem, loopy petals, and two spiky leaves coming out from the bottom. But now, it all seemed to materialize with a startling clarity like a March sun on a sixty-two degree day. High winds of reality scoured away any jealous humidity, whipping away the delusion.

  Chris’s son had died. And she could possess a fortune, a fabulous wardrobe, a house on a golf course, a Range Rover, and artistic ability, and I wouldn’t trade places.

  Oh, Chrissy. So beautiful.

  So vulnerable now.

  Forgive me. Forgive my pettiness, my jealousy, my unthankfulness.

  It finally didn’t matter to me that I was the ugly one, the fat one, the struggler.

  Angus slept or read almost the entire time, commenting on various historical figures, making childish assumptions which warmed my heart. But for the most part, I listened to CDs and sipped coffee straight from the old Aladdin.

  The downtown spires of the city materialized around three in the afternoon, majestic mountains of commerce rising out of the scrub of the shipyard industry and the monstrous cranes that lined the dockyards. So many people complained about the ugly warehouses and factories that greeted the travelers up I-95, but even my father once told me that the only reason the beautiful houses out in the valleys surrounding the northern parts of the city could be there was because of the money generated down there by the water.

  I turned off the expressway and skirted the Ravens stadium with its purple seats and purple signs. We passed Camden Yards and eventually turned onto Charles Street.

  I always had a secret desire to eat my way up Charles Street. Thai, Afghani, Japanese, Irish, French-Japanese, and Italian restaurants served their cuisines in the shadow of the large Roman Catholic Basilica. A cool little bead shop sat on one corner, giving me a strong desire to try my hand at macramé.

  Oh, brother!

  Finally, we passed Johns Hopkins University, Chris still asleep, thank God, and I literally meant that, and turned into one of the large, upscale condo buildings in Roland Park. Daddy and Mother’s place. Lots of picture windows and sliding glass doors.

  My dad waited for me on one of the little geriatric cement benches outside. He looked up as I pulled in, failed to recognize the car, and went back to the magazine he held.

  I pulled into one of the nearby visitor spaces and jumped out, hurrying over to him in that college girl way. “Daddy!” I cried, surprised at how glad I was to see him.

  “Poppers!” he yelled back and opened his arms.

  The embrace didn’t last long, but the warmth of him through his plaid cotton shirt felt comforting and nice.

  “Nice car! I didn’t know you got a new car.”

  Dad has always loved cars. The love of cars somehow passes down genetically from Heubner to Heubner.

  “Duncan surprised me with it a while ago.”

  “Guess you’re glad to be out of that van!”

  “Oh, man. Am I!”

  He hugged me again. And he smelled nice, still the same. No colognes. Just Safe Guard, Right Guard, and Binaca Blast. “I’m glad you’re here, Popp.”

  I pulled back. “The others are still asleep.”

  “In that case,” he said, reaching into his shirt pocket, “you can have the last peppermint.”

  I unwrapped the cellophane and placed it on my tongue. “Wanna see the car?”

  “Of course. Lead the way. How do you like it?” he asked as we walked across the lot.

  “It’s nice. Easy to get out of first gear, good pickup, and more than enough space in the back for groceries.”

  He ran a knobby old hand over the front fender. “I’ve always liked green the best.”

  “Me, too.”

  It wasn’t long before Chris and Angus came back to consciousness and realized the trip had ended. Chris climbed out, and Angus grabbed all of his books. After some more hugging, we levitated up to the eighth floor in the small, wood paneled elevator. I said a silent prayer. Mother awaited.

  “Is Mother up there?”

  “Sure is. And she’s making your favorite meal. Stuffed cabbage rolls.”

  Our eyes locked. And then Chris’s gaze joined in.

  I hated cabbage.

  “Just kidding!” Mother yelled as Dad heave-hoed a large Belleek tureen onto the table. “Irish Stew!”

  “Now this really is my favorite,” I said. What a delightful little joke. Miracles still happened apparently.

  Homemade cloverleaf rolls arrived in a wicker basket with hand-embroidered Irish linen swaddling their warmth.

  “Oh, man.” I nudged Angus. “This is good eating.”

  “Do I have to have the stew?”

  “Of course you do.”

  Mother waved a bony hand. “Oh, don’t make him, Poppy. At least not for my sake. He’s a grandson after all.”

  “Okay.” I shrugged, determined not to start trouble right away. “What’s for dessert?”

  “Strawberries and raspberries with French vanilla ice cream.”

  After a quick “Bless us, O Lord,” I scooped up a spoonful of stew. The salty brown gravy coated my tongue. The meat fell apart between my teeth, and the potatoes were halfway to disintegration before they had even left the bowl.

  No one talked for the first five minutes. Mother had done such a wonderful job. And finally, when we had second helpings, Mother told me that Paisley had come to live with them.

  Twenty-three

  Daddy and I strolled down Charles Street and onto the campus of Johns Hopkins. Homewood, the regal Carroll mansion, held court over the academic buildings, thoroughly attesting to the old saying, “They don’t build them like they used to.” Or that’s at least what I thought.

  Dad squeezed my hand as we walked along. “I’m glad you came up.”

  “You said Paisley would be home later on this evening?”

  “Yes. Should get off work around eight.”

  Mother already informed me that Paisley had obtained a decent job as a tutor for Sylvan Learning.

  “Does she know I’m coming?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, Dad! Come on! Why didn’t you tell her?”

  “Because she’d come up with some excuse to stay out late or even go down the ocean or something.”

  That sure was the truth. “I wish you two wo
uld tell me why she left Boston.”

  “It’s got to be up to her, Popp.”

  I laid my head against my daddy’s arm, and we said nothing else as we walked around the campus. Until much later.

  “I can’t walk around here anymore without thinking about Josh,” Dad said.

  “Do you still walk here everyday?”

  “Yes. We had him over a few times for supper. Thoroughly enjoyed his company. I still can’t believe he’s gone.”

  “I’m taking Chrissy to talk with the other guy who climbed the tower. I’m not sure where she’s going with all of this, Daddy.”

  The breeze lifted his white hair off of his forehead. “I doubt if she knows herself, sweets.”

  We walked some more. “I’m glad Paisley won’t recognize the new car. If we had brought the van …”

  “Yep. She’d be going down the ocean.”

  The moment I saw Paisley, sitting on the white couch in my parents’ living room, a great truth came upon me. It really is all my fault.

  It had been easy to blame Paisley all of these years. She had been so contrary, so disobedient, so wont to do whatever the heck she wanted to do. She’d pushed me away, ridiculed me, ignored me, and thought me a fool. She’d had premarital sex, smoked Marlborough Reds or Camels without the filter, and though she didn’t drink, she went to all of those filthy places with moidering chewing gum plastered beneath every surface and neon signs that advertised cheap domestic beer.

  I was the mother.

  It was up to me. It had always been up to me.

  “Hi, Paise.”

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “I’m surprised to see you here.”

  “Yeah, well.”

  “What happened?”

  “Didn’t Grammie tell you?”

  “No.”

  “I flunked out.”

  “What? Oh, Paise!” I ran over and put my arms around her. Paisley stiffened as she always did, but this time, I refused to let go.

  “No!” I cried as my daughter wriggled. “No!”

  Paisley continued to struggle, but I held on tight, my tears spilling onto the top of my daughter’s hair. Still dyed black. She worked so hard at her grades.

  Mother entered the room. “Let her go, Poppy.”

  “No, Mother. She doesn’t want that.”

  Paisley shoved her way free and ran into her grandparents’ bedroom.

  I stood to my feet, shaking at each joint. Why did I always do the wrong thing? Why didn’t I have a clue as to what this child needed?

  “Well, way to go,” Mother said.

  I wiped sudden, hot tears away with my forearm, wiped my nose with my sleeve. “What would you know, Mother?”

  “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  “ ‘Let her go, Poppy,’ ” I mimicked.

  “And I was right! You saw the way she ran out of here.” Mother sighed and sat down on the couch with a shake of her head. “Sit down, Penelope.”

  “What is there to say?”

  “I didn’t say I wanted to talk, did I?”

  “Well, no.”

  “All right then.”

  I sat back down, thankful Angus and Chris were still in the kitchen helping Daddy with the supper dishes.

  “We’re some sick women,” Mother said.

  I nodded. “Poor Paisley. She must feel awful.”

  “I know.” Mother took my hand and interlaced my fingers with her own. I stared down at the twin bone structure.

  The tears gathered in my eyes again, but this time I blinked them back. We sat that way for several minutes, stiff and unable to move.

  “I’d better go see to Paisley,” I said. “Did she tell you why she flunked out?”

  “Yes. I’ll go help with the kitchen.”

  We stood to our feet simultaneously.

  But Paisley had locked the door. I called, “I’m here. I’m not leaving tonight.”

  And the child didn’t answer.

  The phone rang.

  I shuffled back into the kitchen to find Mother talking to my Aunt Lucy about General Hospital while the others still worked. The hall bathroom stood vacant, so I slipped inside, shut the door, bit down on a hand towel, and wept. Sinking to the floor, I wondered how I had lost my daughter so thoroughly.

  When the chips came falling down on Paisley’s head, she hadn’t turned to me.

  I had a lot to answer for and realized there, so close to Hopkins and TV hill, that losing a child comes in many forms.

  Twenty-four

  What will this kid be like?” Chris asked as she emptied out the silverware. She hadn’t seen Paisley, and though I’d gathered my wits and headed back to the kitchen, I couldn’t bring myself to say anything yet.

  I knew fraternity boys didn’t corner any kind of market on mystique. Unless the ability to belch out the opening strains of “Smoke on the Water” fell into that niche. But obviously, Chris felt otherwise. Most outsiders felt otherwise.

  I searched for the coffee filters, ready for some after supper java. Shoot, I held no hope for sleep anyway tonight. I had to approach my daughter sometime before the eleven o’clock news to demand an audience. Mothers couldn’t let something like this go. And I refused to abnegate my position any longer. Besides, I know what failure is like. If anyone could comfort her it was me. As long as I went about it the right way. And fat chance of that, right?

  Best to get on with the conversation at hand. “What do you think they’ll be like, Chrissy?”

  “Rich boys, I guess. Estates and trust funds and snazzy red imports.”

  “Racing green,” I said. “Or black.”

  “See, Poppy?” Chris turned to face me. “You accuse me of being a reverse snob, and then when I don’t get the right ‘classiness’ ”—she bent her first two fingers on each hand for the quotation marks—“you always have to correct it. Good grief!”

  She turned back to the silverware drawer, whipping around, her slumped shoulders a bony wall.

  I decided the best course of action was to just go right on with the topic at hand. The last thing Chris needed to know was that she’d hurt my feelings even though I deserved it. “There are some nice boys in fraternities. Josh wasn’t from that kind of background. And you know his friend Jason really well, right? He’s a good kid.”

  “That’s true.”

  “And they probably belch some other kind of music these days on boring weeknights. Like that group Mush Mouth or something.”

  Chris turned to me. “So it’s not a party every night?”

  “It didn’t used to be. And Josh went with Zeta Chi. They’re known to be a bit more serious about their education.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. A lot of those boys are sponsored by older, more distinguished fraternity alumni.” Of course, Chris knew that. But we seemed to be having a lot of the same conversations over and over since Josh died.

  “What happened then, Popp? Why would those kind of boys get Josh to climb TV hill?”

  “I don’t know, Chrissy.”

  And it really was a mystery to me. The father of one of the other climbing boys was a Zeta Chi alumnus. He had agreed to talk with us tomorrow morning. I made the call back in Mount Oak, and I had to admire the man because if the situation were reversed, I don’t know if I’d agree to the proposition.

  Paisley walked into the kitchen.

  Talk about a surprise!

  Angus clung to his sister’s back like a bony chimpanzee in denim overalls. Happiness spread itself on his pinched little face like butter on an English muffin. “Paisley’s going to take me to Starbuck’s for a kid’s hot chocolate!”

  Never mind it was seventy-five degrees outside.

  Chris turned around from her place at the sink and cried, “Paisley!”

  They hugged with sincere warmth, a natural embrace, organic and comfortable.

  “Your grandparents told me you were here in Baltimore. Shouldn’t you be in Boston?”

  “I flunked ou
t, Aunt Chris.”

  “Oh, Paise. I’m so sorry! Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’ll be okay.”

  Chris looked at me. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You’ve got enough to think about, Chrissy.”

  “I know, but good grief, Poppy.” She turned back to face Paisley. “What can I do, Paise?”

  Paisley set her mouth in a thin line, then shook her head. “I’d like it if you could just not bring it up. I’ve got a lot of thinking to do about what comes next.” Paisley’s tone sounded deflated somehow.

  Chris reached out a hand and rubbed Paisley’s arm. “You got it.”

  “Would you pick me up something while you’re there?” Why endure Fidge’s Maxwell House when I could get a venti anything?

  Paisley refused to meet my eyes, but she said, “Sure,” in a regular, clear tone of voice. The most clear tone of voice I’d heard her use in four years.

  I trailed my eyes over my daughter’s slender frame, now covered by cutoff Levi’s and a plain white T-shirt. A new tattoo glimmered atop Paisley’s bicep. Lily of the Valley.

  “Let me get you some money.” I grabbed my purse off of the counter.

  Mother hung up the phone.

  “I’m taking Gus to Starbuck’s, Grammie,” Paisley said.

  “Oh, get me a venti decaf mocha latte with an extra shot, would you?”

  My hands opened in shock, and I watched as my bag fell out of my grasp. I dropped to my knees immediately to pick up the spilled contents. “Well, I guess I’ll take that, too, only not decaf.”

  So. Well, huh.

  Go Fidge lady.

  I hurried over to the Maxwell House, peeled open the lid and sniffed. Stale.

  Mother crossed her arms. “You don’t think I sent you all that coffee for Christmas without getting some for myself, do you?”

  “You want anything, Aunt Chris?” Paisley asked.

  Chris examined the three Heubner women. I felt what she saw before her. Three dark-haired women with the same brown eyes and a love affair with the coffee bean. I saw three women who had been given every advantage and still fussed about life though we had no right. I saw three women who were bratty enough to want their way and strong enough to fight for it, even if the fight was sometimes a losing battle. I saw three ridiculous people who had all the love in the world to give but were waiting to get it first.